


The Scent of Church Incense

by dustandroses



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Miguel in Solitary fic, Miguel's Grandmother, Oz Free For All, POV: Miguel, Summer of Oz 2015, The Ghost of Ricardo Alvarez, attempted suicide, canon suicide attempt, friendship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/pseuds/dustandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he takes Rivera's eyes, Miguel slowly decends into madness trapped in a small Solitary cell.  What he needs is a friend.  Who knows, maybe Ray Mukada needs a friend, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Church Incense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myhappyface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhappyface/gifts).



> **Beta:** Ozsaur, my hero and shit  
>  **Prompt Notes:** This fic was originally prompted by MyHappyFace, in February of 2010 for the second Oz Free For All. I went back and looked for the prompt, but since she's changed her name, all her old comments were deleted. I hope this fic fits the prompt - if she even remembers making it... So I give it to you all. Enjoy!  
>  **Notes:** Super-duper thanks to Trillingstar, who did a last-second beta of my banner, and searched her entire massive collection of fonts for just the right one.

Miguel dreams about his grandmother’s hands, rough and callused from years of hard work washing and cleaning for people who never appreciated her. Yet her hands will always mean home and love and comfort to him. She holds him to her breast and rocks him, singing to him and telling him stories of Cuba, and the grandfather he’s never seen except in the pictures she keeps on her dresser. He presses himself closer to her, smelling herbs and fresh-baked bread and church incense, and sighs knowing he’s loved and safe in his abuela’s arms. 

When he wakes and smiles, thanking her for her love, his grandfather is there, sitting at the end of his bunk, to remind him that it was just a dream. 

“Well you’re dead too, you know. My Mina is as real as you are. Go away.”

He doesn’t, but then Miguel doesn’t really expect him to. He’s given up trying to talk sense to the old man; his grandmother told many tales of his stubborn will and his short temper. Miguel just rolls his eyes. 

He can hear the guards in the hall outside his cell talking to the prisoner who delivers the meals, so he concentrates on them, and that gives him something to do besides listen to old men who can’t think of anything nice to say. Not that he expects to be fed today. It was only a few days ago that he ate, they won’t feed him again for at least another day. The guards exact reparation from him for the blinding of one of their own. But it’s something to do, so he listens until the sounds fade out as the hot tray moves farther down the hall.

His grandfather’s not always so bad. Sometimes he talks about Cuba, and Mina, and Miguel puzzles over the differences in his stories from the ones his grandmother used to tell him. His grandfather remembers things differently than Mina, and it makes him wonder which version is right. Miguel likes it when he talks about her, how pretty she was, and how he asked her father if he could court her before he ever spoke to her, because that was the way things were done back then.

He talks about holding her hand in his when he proposed to her, and how she took both his hands in hers and pulled him up to kiss him when she said yes. She had soft hands then, not rough and callused, but Miguel recognizes her in the story because those hands were always full of love. 

When his grandfather was in the infirmary, Miguel held his hand as he rambled on in Spanish, confused and lost. His hands were dry and deeply wrinkled, full of age spots and scars from when he was younger. He was a mechanic before he ended up in Oz, and he was in many fights here before he killed the man that cut out Miguel’s papa’s tongue. His scars were a part of his life, things that showed that he lived life to the fullest before Solitary took that life away from him.

When Doctor Nathan comes to tell him she won’t be bringing his pills any more, he grabs her hand in both of his, caressing her slender fingers with his thumb while he thanks her for all she’s done for him. Her nails are trimmed and neatly filed, and he remembers his sisters and cousins, gossiping together as they did each other’s nails. Young Miguel’s nose would crinkle at the harsh smell of polish and remover as they fanned their hands in the air. 

Doctor Nathan’s hand is gentle but firm, the skin warm to his touch, and he aches to think that she won’t be back. He kisses the back of her hand, and rubs his kiss into the skin there, so that a part of him will leave Solitary when she does. He holds onto her as long as he can, but then she’s gone, his metal cage door slamming shut, and he’s left with his thoughts and his grandfather, who reminds him to flush his pills down the toilet before the guards come back.

He’s lying on his back in his bunk with his feet in the air when Father Mukada comes in. He sighs heavily. He’s glad for the company, because he doesn’t get that much, and his grandfather has started to repeat himself. Again. But he also knows what the padre is here for, and Miguel’s already told him and told him that he can’t confess. You’d think a priest would understand that, but even when Miguel explains it to him, he can tell the padre just doesn’t get it. 

His grandfather doesn’t like Mukada, calls him a hack in black. But he still talked to the padre when he came to visit. What the hell, it was company, even if only for a few minutes – a break in the endlessly repetitive days. Miguel can tell Mukada doesn’t believe him when he says his grandfather is in the cell with him, but it’s hard to prove, especially since he tends to go away when others are around. It’s good to get a break from his abuelo. 

Mukada opens his box, and pulls out the wafers for the communion Miguel isn’t prepared to take. When he sits next to Miguel on his bed, the padre fiddles with his fingers as he talks. His nails are short and ragged, like he chews on them, and he has the yellow stains of long tobacco use on the fingers of one hand. Miguel wonders if Mukada’s fingers would smell like tar if he held them to his nose. 

He’s not prepared to try and find out; everyone already thinks he’s crazy, no need to prove the point for them. It’s probably too late for that, though. His eyes keep going back and back to the communion wafers. They look like thin, delicate crackers. He wonders how many it would take to ease the gnawing hunger in his gut. 

When Miguel grabs them and stuffs them in his mouth, he backs away from the anger in Mukada’s eyes, hands coming up to ward off the blows, begging the padre not to hurt him. He should know better, Mukada has never been easy to anger, but it seems like all anyone wants from him these days is his pain, and the reaction is instinctive and out of Miguel’s control. 

The padre’s hands clench and unclench, like maybe he wants to grab Miguel and shake the answers he wants out of him. Or maybe he wants to hold onto Miguel and tell him he’s safe. That would be nice – to be safe. It seems like he hasn’t been safe since he was in his abuela’s arms, too many years ago.

Mukada promises he’ll keep Miguel’s secret. He’s not so sure about God, but he knows the padre, and if he promises he won’t tell anyone, Miguel believes him. They’ve been through a lot together in the two years he’s spent in this hell. He tells Mukada about the hacks, about the gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach and the thirst that can’t be quenched with piss and toilet water. He talks about the beatings that stop just short of bones breaking and the wakeup calls on the half-hour all night long to keep him tired and disoriented.

Mukada holds Miguel’s hand. He doesn’t try to preach to him or tell him God will take care of everything, and Miguel is glad for that. He can feel the sweat on the padre’s palm as his fingers clutch Miguel’s, and the calluses on his fingers rub against his skin, but Miguel feels more alive than he has in a long time. How long has it been since someone touched him in kindness? It makes his hands shake, and the padre puts his arm around Miguel and holds him close, whispering in his ear.

It’s not Spanish, it must be Latin, but Miguel can’t think well enough to figure it out. He just holds tightly onto the padre’s shoulders until the shaking fades away. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t think he has any tears left, but the ache in his heart eases just a little. He can feel the fabric of Mukada’s jacket on his cheek and he breathes in the scents of cigarettes and church incense and is strangely comforted by that strange mix. Mukada shivers when he breathes out, his breath raising goose bumps on the padre’s skin.

Miguel is content in this moment, but he knows it won’t last, so when the hack knocks on the metal door and asks the padre if he’s finished, he lets Mukada pull away, and is surprised to see tears in the corners of his eyes. He stands up and fumbles with the sacrament, putting everything back in its box. He takes a deep breath before he turns around and faces Miguel again. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, his voice rough with his tears, and then he’s gone.

Miguel sighs as the door swings shut, and he’s alone again. Except for his grandfather, who tells him he’s a fool for trusting a padre. Miguel turns his back and curls up on his bunk, the blanket over his head, as if he’s a turtle in his shell. Maybe if he ignores him, his grandfather will go away. He’d rather think of Mukada, with his jacket soft on Miguel’s cheek, the scent of tobacco and church incense soothing his soul. 

His grandfather curses at him, reminding Miguel of how he held the padre hostage when he took out Rivera’s eyes, and how Miguel treated Mukada when he was in charge of the hostages during the riot. He warns him not to trust Mukada, that he may say he cares, but Miguel has treated him harshly, and that he’s only waiting for a chance to pay Miguel back; that he’s probably telling everyone Miguel’s secrets right now.

Miguel argues with him. His abuelo has been crazy longer than Miguel has, and he doesn’t understand Mukada – not the way Miguel does. When the hacks broke into the padre’s office after he took out Rivera’s eyes, Mukada cried out for them to not hurt Miguel, told them he’d promised Miguel that he would be safe. He trusts the padre. More than anyone he can ever remember, other than his Mina. They both smell like church incense. Miguel wonders if that has something to do with it. 

He gets angrier and angrier at his grandfather’s ranting, and finally he explodes, screaming and yelling, hitting the metal walls over and over, tearing his cell apart, crying for the comfort that he fears will never be his again. He’s lost, and he knows his grandfather is right, no one will ever love him, he’ll be trapped in this room forever, and now that his son is dead, there will be no one to take his place. When he’s old and dying in the infirmary, no one will hold his hand. No one will even care.

* * *

He hears Howell talking to someone right before the door to his cell opens. But he doesn’t even have the energy to look up. He’s drained and empty now – hollow. The only thing he feels is the ache in his bruised and bloody knuckles, but even that is a far away sensation. Nothing can touch him now, not even his grandfather. For the first time since he came to Solitary, he doesn’t feel the gnawing hunger in his gut – he doesn’t feel anything at all. He likes being surrounded by nothing – no place for cares, or pain. No emotions. Nothing.

He knows the padre is in the cell now, but that’s alright. It doesn’t matter anymore. He sits and fiddles with his fingers, lost in the nothing. It’s peaceful there, and he doesn’t want to leave. Mukada shoves something at him, but he barely notices it. Eat? He’s not hungry anymore. But the padre keeps insisting.

“Take the damn sandwich!”

Something inside Miguel breaks open, and the rage is back. It all happens in flashes then – the look of shock on Mukada’s face as Miguel shoves him away, ripping at Mukada’s vestments, screaming at him. 

“Fuck you, you fucking shit!” 

He’s angry at Mukada because he knows that eventually he’ll leave Miguel, just like everyone else. When the guards show up, and the pain starts again. It doesn’t end for a long time. 

Miguel wakes up to the sound of laughter in the hallway. Howell is banging on the bars of someone else’s cage, yelling at them to shut the fuck up before she has to get nasty. He starts to laugh – it’s too late for that, she’s already nasty. But the laugh dies in his throat when his ribs scream at him for breathing too deep. The memory of why he hurts so bad hits him almost as hard as Howell’s fucking billy club, and he moans softy so as not to let the guards know he’s awake. 

There’s an unusual smell in the cell. He’s been smelling it for a while now, but he’s only now realizing it. He can’t place it, but it’s a familiar smell just the same. It smells like home and comfort and reminds him of his abuela. He closes his eyes and breathes deep. He’s back in his grandmother’s kitchen, sitting at the table watching intently as she spreads peanut butter on a slice of homemade bread. He grins up at his Mina and she laughs at his hungry smile, opening the grape jelly – his favorite – and spreading it on the other slice of bread. 

She pours the milk and sets the sandwich in front of him, cut into pieces to make it easier for little hands to grasp. And when he’s finished the sandwich, and drunk all the milk, she brings over a washcloth and he pushes his face into her hands as she wipes it clean. She takes one small hand at a time, washing between the fingers to make sure she gets all the jelly. She dries his hands on her apron, and he holds onto her fingers as she takes him outside to play in the sun with his sisters and his cousins. 

Miguel wakes up abruptly, one minute playing in the sun, and the next alone in his Solitary cell. His grandfather is nowhere to be seen, and he sighs with relief. He knows what he needs to do. He’s driven off his only friend in this horrible place. He’ll be alone for the rest of his life, only a ghost for company. He can’t live like that. He _won’t_ live like that. It’s not worth the effort of staying alive anymore. 

He forces himself to get up, despite the sharp pains in his side. When he picks up his sheet, he finds the sandwich Mukada had tried to force him to eat, half squashed, still wrapped in its paper towel. He picks it up and dumps it into the toilet, wishing he could take it all back – tell the padre he’s sorry for refusing his help. But he knows it’s too late now. Mukada will never understand. He’ll never be able to forgive Miguel for what he’s about to do. 

Miguel says his goodbyes, and begins to rip the sheet into strips to make a noose. It’s time to go home to his abuela.

* * *

When Miguel wakes up, Dr. Nathan and Sister Pete are there. They shake their heads at him, and tell him he’s not in heaven. 

“You shoulda let me die. Shoulda let me die.”

The next time he awakes, he can feel warm hands holding his cold one, holding tightly, and something tickling the back of his hand. When he opens his eyes, he sees a dark head of hair bent over his bed, so close that the unruly hair brushes his skin. The soft murmur is soothing, although he can’t hear the words the padre is saying. His breath whispers across Miguel’s skin. 

He jerks his hand back trying to pull it out of Mukada’s grasp – he’s done too much for the padre to ever forgive him. Mukada’s head comes up, and he holds on stubbornly to Miguel’s fingers. Miguel can see the tears in his eyes. They seem fitting; someone should cry, and Miguel has no tears left.

“You’re awake.” Mukada seems surprised. Maybe Miguel really is dead, and Sister Pete and Dr. Nathan were merely a dream. But then, he’s not sure you dream when you’re dead. Dead is dead, after all.

Miguel swallows, his eyes opening wide at the pain that rushes through him. No, he must be alive. He hurts too much to be dead. “What are you doing here?” he tries to ask. Not much comes out. He swallows again, grimacing at the pain, and repeats his question.

Mukada shrugs. “I wanted to see you. Pray with you, if you want.” He squeezes Miguel’s fingers. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Miguel.” He grins self-consciously. “Life in Oz wouldn’t be the same without you around.” 

One thumb rubs across the back of his fingers, and Miguel shivers. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me, after what I did. I thought you’d hate me…”

“I could never hate you, Miguel.” Mukada pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I may hate what you did. But that’s because I want you here. That may be selfish of me because I know life isn’t easy for you in Oz, but,” he shrugs self-consciously, “I’d miss you if you were gone.”

“You forgive me? For the way I treated you? For trying to kill myself?”

Mukada shook his head. “There’s nothing for me to forgive.” He smiled crookedly. “Now God, on the other hand… You may need to ask him to forgive you. God gave you this life; he expects you to take care of it for him.”

Miguel shrugs. He’s not that worried about what God thinks at this point. As long as he has a friend here, he can survive. He drifts off; the sound of Mukada’s murmuring soft in his ear, and dreams of his abuela and the scent of church incense.


End file.
